


Dragged along

by Titels



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Gen, Homeless Harry, Homeless Tom, M/M, One Shot, Paranoia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 05:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16510175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titels/pseuds/Titels
Summary: Harry and Tom are homeless. If you ask Harry, it's all Tom's fault.





	Dragged along

**Author's Note:**

> So this turned out to be nothing like I had planned, and quite different from what I normally write. Feedback is _greatly_ appreciated!

Harry woke up and his first thought was how much he hated Tom Riddle. Then he shivered and tried to burrow deeper under the threadbare blanket. He knew it was in vain, but his body acted on it’s own.

The early spring chill kept hold of his body, sending shivers racking down his spine. Behind him, someone moved and slung their arm around him, pulling him close.

“I keep telling you to not move away from me.”

Harry hissed, but allowed himself to be pulled into a warm embrace. He would have been grateful, if it wasn’t for the fact that if it hadn’t been for Tom Riddle Harry wouldn’t have been out there, freezing.

Harry remembered his old bed fondly, and the soft comforter he’d had. It had been filled with downy feathers and he remembered how he’d believe it to be an extravagance. _Nothing but the best for my darling_ , Tom had said.

Where he lay, still cold but warmer now in Tom’s embrace, Harry scoffed and elbowed his way out. The cold hit immediately and he missed the cosy nest. Looking back, Tom was still lying almost completely covered in blankets. He was staring at Harry from between the folds, wordlessly calling him an idiot and urging him to come back. Harry was damned if he would.

Instead the raised an eyebrow and turned on his heel, heading down to find his usual spot by the metro entrance. It was still early, early enough that Harry arrived before the subway had opened. He settled down to wait, huddling as close as he could to the doors and taking whatever heat escaped the poorly insulated walls. A moment after – Harry didn’t know how long, by now he had already mastered the art of letting time pass him by – the morning shift arrived. He gave Harry a filthy look as he unlocked the doors, but did nothing to stop him from following inside.

Harry didn’t go too far, anyway. Stopped before the turnstiles and settled against the wall. Out of the way, but perfectly in sight so that people could ignore him as they moved on with their lives.

Harry remembered doing that. He remembered the awkward feeling of knowing they were there yet ignoring them, the pained knowledge that he didn’t care enough to help them. _They’re not actually homeless, Harry,_ Tom would say, _it’s all a plot. They take your money and go back to fancy houses, all so they don’t need to work._

Tom didn’t say that any longer. Harry supposed it was a blessing in itself.

  


Time passed and slowly the morning crowd passed by, mostly ignoring him. He got a couple of coins from those who were for some reason feeling extra generous; making up for something bad they had done in their lives or allowing themselves to share a bit of that extra money that had come their way. Making good, raising their karma.

Harry smiled and nodded to them and they all left in a hurry. Harry never tried to start a real conversation. To find out he was a human being might break them.

  


After some time, Tom came to find him. He always did. He had food with him, like he always had. Harry numbly gripped the bread that Tom forced into his hand and he ate it when he was urged to.

It was delicious.

Harry was sometimes amazed by how good things tasted, how sweet a simple bread bun could be. He didn’t think he had ever appreciated it, back when he had been a person.

  


Tom left. He never stayed where there was people. _Their eyes, Harry, their eyes are everywhere,_ he used to say. _I know he’s looking for me. His spies are everywhere and if we’re not careful they will get me._

He never forced Harry to follow him, allowed him to sit and sit and sit and sit, in the same spot, day in and day out. He wasn’t looking for Harry, after all. In a way it was a kindness and in another it was a curse because Harry was going out of his mind and he wanted to scream and rage and…

Clink.

Harry smiled and nodded at the old lady who had dropped the coin. She looked nice, and far too poor to be able to give money to someone else. But she didn’t stop and Harry didn’t run after her, didn’t attempt to give the money back. It was just a pound.

After the evening rush, Harry left. Stay any later and you risked getting beat up. Even if you didn’t, you were more likely to receive frightened stares rather than money. Harry couldn’t take the stares.

The onslaught of the wind outside had Harry chilled to the bone in a second. He longed for hot showers and sitting in front of the fireplace. His godfather had the greatest fireplace where they would all gather as he told tales of the past. His mischief seemed like magic to Harry now.

  


Tom found him as he was walking through an alley. Joined up and followed his pace like he had been walking there all along. In some ways, Harry believed that he had. Tom was a shadow that he could never quite shake, even when the man himself wasn’t around.

As they walked, Tom spoke.

These were the times Tom would speak, otherwise remaining silent in fear of being overheard. Funny, that a man so fond of his own voice should not wish for others to hear it.

“I saw him today,” Tom confided, “strutting around like he owns London. Handing out treats and hugging orphans.” He spat.

Harry watched as the gob of spittle flew across the alley, landing with a smack against the cobblestones. Within seconds it had blended in to simply become more filth on the deserted street.

“If only they knew what he was doing behind their backs,” Tom continued, face a twisted mask of disgust, “if only they knew how blackened his heart is. But all they see is his pristine exterior.”

Harry didn’t say anything, but Tom didn’t need him to. He could talk about his nemesis for hours, as long as they didn’t run into anyone. If they did, silence would reign.

Beautiful, wonderful silence.

Harry had used to loathe it, hated the absence of sound, being able to hear his own heartbeat and his own panicked breath. Now there were days when he wanted nothing but silence.

They walked and Tom kept talking, voice raising as he got excited, but never too loud. There were eyes and ears everywhere.

  


Darkness was creeping upon them fast, much faster than Harry ever expected. Tom would set up their bed and he would pull Harry down with him, arm firmly locked around his waist, body pressed closed.

Some days, Harry would fight. He would kick and punch and bite every part of Tom that he could reach. Other days he accepted his fate quietly, lying still as Tom pulled him closer and closer, relishing the heat.

“Harry, Harry, Harry...” Tom would whisper, regardless of how he acted. “Harry, Harry, Harry...”

When Harry had tired himself out from fighting, the soft whispers would follow him into sleep.

  


He still wanted to fight when he woke up. Felt his fingers itch with the urge to close around Tom’s – now skinny – throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Squeeze a little bit harder for every time the man said his name like a promise, for when he whispered Harry’s name and made the very syllables into his chains.

Tom breathed gently next to him, and Harry couldn’t.

But he could untangle himself, shiver from the cold, and return to his normal haunt. The dull repetition numbed his feelings, numbed his hate and his love and…

Harry didn’t want to feel anything. Better to fade like the non-person he was, the entity on the edge of society, always present but never there. He imagined there had never been such a thing as ghosts, only people like him.

  


It was lunch, and Tom didn’t come find him. Harry stared up into the gently smiling face of Dumbledore. He had never met the man in person before, but his face looked just like it did on posters.

_Equality._ The posters said. _For the greater good._

Harry closed his eyes and believed that when he opened them, the man would be gone.

He wasn’t.

“Are you alright, dear boy?” Dumbledore’s voice was strong for someone so old, and the end of his beard laid against the ground where he was crouching. _A carefully constructed mimicry._ As if he wasn’t too good to touch the filth. As if he didn’t believe himself to stand above them.

Harry shrugged.

Dumbledore smiled at him, so very brightly. Harry didn’t think anyone had smiled at him for a long time. He tried to remember Tom smiling at him. It hurt.

“Come now, it’s alright to admit it. It’s alright to admit you need help. I can help you.”

Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it. He didn’t even let out a gasp of surprise when a figure flew into his vision and went crashing into Dumbledore. Man and figure went down, blending into one on the ground.

Tom snarled and bounced up, grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling him up and up and up and up the stairs. Behind them, the old man looked shocked.

  


“What was he doing?!” Tom screamed, pushing people out of his way as he pulled Harry along. “What did he think he was doing, touching what’s mine?!”

His face was a mask of fury, and it got worse when Harry stopped and resisted, his wrist slipping out of Tom’s grip. Looking Tom in the eye, Harry turned and he ran back the way they had come.

“Harry!” Tom hissed, and his arms were almost long enough to catch him. “Harry!”

  


“...Help me…” His voice sounded alien to his own ears, and too silent compared to Tom’s furious roars behind him. He couldn’t remember the last time he spoke.

Dumbledore towered over him, appearing a giant in mauve. The old man smiled, and Harry recoiled at those teeth. _He’s a shark,_ Tom hissed in his mind, _luring beneath calm waters._ Dumbledore held his hand out.

Harry took it.

“Harry!” Tom screamed, now wild and feral. “Harry! I won’t let him take you from me!”

Dumbledore’s smile turned into concern and his hand closed around Harry’s. The grip was harsh, bruising.

Harry turned and looked at Tom. He had stopped now, bare feet away. His hand was closed too, clenched white around the handle of a knife. Harry stared. The knife struck deep, sliding down until it got wedged, stuck in an old wrist. The grip on his hand was loose now, loose enough that Tom could wretch it away. His face was all disgust as he flung the arm from them.

There were people shouting, but the noise didn’t register. The constant hum of the crowd was overpowering. Harry didn’t run from him when Tom grabbed his wrist, but he didn’t run with him either.

_Get away,_ Tom hissed in his mind. _I can help you,_ Dumbledore countered.

Tom was yelling at him, and Harry loved Tom. Almost as much as he hated him. He was tired and he missed the feeling of a warm bed, a hot bath.

Tom didn’t let him go, not even after he had been tackled to the ground.

  


In a clean hospital bed, Harry thinks of waking up in the middle of the night to a panicked Tom. He thinks of hearing the heavy banging on the door and the scared expression on his face. He wonders why he agreed to follow, and why he never stopped to question it. He thinks of how intensely he loved, back then.

Harry wonders why he never left, even if he lost his papers and the bank refused to believe him when he told them his name. He always knew where Sirius lived.

Turning over in the crisp white sheets, Harry closes his eyes. He can’t sleep.

  


Across the dull table Tom looks older. His hair is coming out in patches and his skin is the colour of a corpse. He doesn’t say anything, so Harry stays silent too.

Their eyes meet across the table and there is judgement in his eyes.

“You’re time is up.” The guard says, tone strict but bored. A low-level prison like this holds no excitement, and to escort a paranoid bum back to his cell won’t be any different from the hundreds of other’s she has escorted.

Tom stands, but before she can lead him away his arm shoots out and grabs Harry’s wrist. It closes around the bruises left by Dumbledore and it smarts. Harry winces and Tom presses harder.

“Harry.” He says and then lets go, just before the guard gets antsy.

Harry stares after them silently, until a guard leads him away too. He can’t help rubbing his wrist, feeling the imprint of Tom’s fingers. The new bruises will overwrite the old, he knows.

  


When the bruises fade away, Harry goes to visit Tom again.

  


  



End file.
